III.-I - The Cult - Script Test
III.-I
Prologue: The Cult
INT. AN OFFICE
THE WRITER sat behind his desk, rereading, editing with scribbles & handwritten notes. How would it start? And then it dawned on him. After writing for a while, he read it aloud.
Back to the beginning. We all come to a story with hopes and expectations, looking for an answer. Sometimes it would be better to live with that hope - without ever knowing the full story. In a horror story, there are only victims & monsters, and the trick is not to end up as either. But trapped by the genre, we are all ripped to pieces along the way.
This is not the story I hoped it would be.
This is not the ending I wanted.
This story will eat us alive.
This story is a monster... and monsters wear many faces.
EXT. WOEFUL LAKE, LAKEFRONT
A somewhat FAT MAN, naked & dirty, crawled up a rocky portion of an otherwise sandy beach. He passed a deer, half submerged in the water of the lake, staring with lifeless eyes.
Lost... It's dark.
He finally stood upright with the dark lake water behind him. The trees from the park in front of him stood silent & unmoving. No rain fell in the pitch black of night.
He limped forward from the beach, feet softly squishing in the watery sand. Driftwood & rocks barred his passage on either side, so he stumbled up towards a bowl cut out from the raised grass, trees, and boulders. He was glad it wasn't flooding season.
As he entered the bowl, a light like a flashlight shone down on him.
Please, can you hear me?
A voice came from behind a second light next to the first.
Woah. What's wrong with him?
The fat man continued to walk into the bowl, aware of the sand & dirt falling off his shoulders. Aware of the bitter cold.
Come on, Ed. We should go.
The figures with the lights turned to leave.
Already gone.
He followed the edge of the bowl, onto a sort of path going out the right side. The ledges too steep to climb, especially naked. Another opening with huge piles of driftwood to his right, blocking access to another beach. His path took him under moss-covered branches and into the trees.
The foliage began to sway in the soft breeze. A loud thump, like a boot or an animal, sounded to his right, but nothing was there. He continued his labored walk up the path. When was the last time he did this? The path curved to the left to double-back, slowly leading upward into a grassy, fern and vine covered area.
A loud crash billowed out as a deer ran off from his left, clearly surprised by him. Startled himself, he continued forward up his path until a flash of dark visions brought him to his knees. A bloody, malevolent face grimaced at him. The images were gone as instantly as they appeared.
He groaned after the horror and stood, going further up his path. He heard a crow and low, distant voices distorted by something... something dark.
The path led him gently up the hill, and through the trunk of an unusually large tree.
It was the Witch's Ladle.
Whispers on the wind made him fearful. He picked up his pace as his stumble became a hobbled jog. The path led him back across the hillside past where the bowl had been. About to round a corner, a masked man visually distorted like smoke, came out from a bush while lifting an axe above his head. His jog came to a halt, but as it did, the masked man blew away as a breeze cleared the air of the smoke.
The rain began to pour. A wooden stair on his left was blocked by a couple of fallen trees. He had to follow the path where the masked man appeared on the right. The wind, rain, and distorted whispers increased as he followed the path curving back on his right. The whispers became voices as he saw another path split out on his left. He didn't have the energy to hoist himself over the chest-high log.
Further down his path, a boulder on his left marked an inside corner as it leveled out into a clearing. Two flood lights pointed at him with something between them. A couple figures stepped out from the shadows and the trees to surround him.
More masks.
More smoke.
More blades.
They moved in, and the large man stepped backwards, tripping over himself. They stabbed him. They grabbed him. His mind was fragmented. They dragged him.
The Cult...
His face bloodied as they took him toward the object between the lights.
Their altar.
More flashing visions of smoke, almost inverted Rorschach tests that shifted, then left his gaze.
A masked man hit the back of his head with the butt of a gun as they moved him onto their altar. It was a wooden picnic table. Two grabbed his arms, while a third held his legs, and a fourth began tying down his arms.
He blinked and time passed in an instant. He couldn't tell how many stood over him as the rain splashed all over his body and face.
We're ready. Begin the ritual.
We are The Cult of The Tree. We watch in the night!
The masked man who was straddling the large man lifted a knife.
A deep thud as it hit his chest. More visions crashed in his mind. The smoke. The deer masks.
THE MASKED MAN had pulled out his heart.
Where's the rest of the stuff? To finish this.
I'm coming, I'm coming.
A twig snapped.
What's that?
Two figures looking on turned and ran.
Ed, go!
The masked men gave chase, leaving the body and heart in the dead of night, strapped to the picnic table.
The forest groaned.
Continued in III.I - Invitation
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